


An Absolution

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Resolved Arguments, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: Why does tragedy exists? Because you are so full of rage.Those words had been a constant in Illya's mind during his KGB days, used by his handlers to taunt him and now, suddenly, it’s back. Will it hurt the one he loves the most this time?





	An Absolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/gifts).



> I hope you will like this fic which is inspired by her very lovely tumblr entry.  
> You can visit it [here](http://napoleonsolos.tumblr.com/post/162717357126/anne-carson).
> 
> And thank you so much to bryonyashley for the encouragement that I should post this story.

Napoleon is dead.

Napoleon is supposed to be dead.

He’s been dead for a month and Illya had grieved for him, had learned to deal with the fact that no matter how difficult, he had somehow lost his partner.

So seeing him again that day is something Illya isn’t prepared for. Blood drains from his face thinking his eyes are playing tricks, that his mind had been too consumed with the idea of Napoleon somehow returning from the dead until he is seeing ghosts. But Napoleon is there, alive and whole, right before him in their UNCLE office, and when their eyes locked, Illya’s world is sent spinning out of its axis.

Illya is the first word Napoleon mutters as he rounds his desk and moves towards the stunned Russian. But Illya only steps back, maintaining a safe distance between them. He tries to speak but words are lodged deep in his throat, keeps on staring in disbelief at Napoleon who looks lost himself as to what he wants to say to his partner.

“Illya, this must be difficult for you to grasp,” he eventually says as he starts to explain himself.

“Difficult?” Illya chokes out, breaking his shocked silence. His hands have started to shake, his breaths coming out short and hard. “This is not…possible. You…you are supposed to be dead. Why are you here?”

A hurt look flashed across Napoleon’s face and for a brief moment, Illya wants to laugh. If his words had hurt Napoleon, he definitely had not known how his ‘death’ had affected Illya’s life.

“How can you be alive? Waverly, he told me you died. The mission…”

Illya pauses suddenly and clenches his eyes tight.

Yes, he remembers it. The mission in Bogota. The mission he hadn’t been a part of. The mission which had _'killed’_ Napoleon.

For many months UNCLE had been working on thwarting THRUSH's agenda to spread a toxic virus and when Waverly’s medic team had declared they’d managed to come up with their own antidote to counter their enemy’s evil plan, an UNCLE team comprising of several field agents led by Napoleon, was quickly formed and flown to the South American city where the activity was taking place. Illya, too, would have definitely been in the team had he not already been assigned to a separate mission with Gaby in Tokyo. He hadn’t been pleased when he’d heard of Napoleon spearheading the dangerous assignment and his worst fears were realised when Waverly had delivered him that devastating news as soon as he’d returned from Tokyo, leaving him completely shattered.

“Mr Solo didn’t survive his assignment in Bogota. He and two other agents were exposed to the virus and our antidote we’d developed didn’t cure them as we had hoped. We did everything we could, Kuryakin. I wish we could’ve saved him, I really do. I’m terribly sorry.”

 

_Why does tragedy exists? Because you are so full of rage._

 

Those words had been a constant in his mind during his KGB days, used by his handlers to taunt him and now, suddenly, it’s back. He hears it and Illya’s eyes suddenly snap open, like a switch had been turned on. He looks at Napoleon who is still standing there in front of him, unmoving, his face full of guilt.

“Napoleon, explain,” Illya demands in a trembling voice. “Why did Waverly lie? He showed me your grave. Your name, on the stone...I saw it.”

“Illya, we had to make it believable. Everything was orchestrated,” Napoleon starts, deliberates his next words. He takes a step forward and when Illya does not move, Napoleon takes it as a good sign, takes it as his cue to explain further. “UNCLE needed to make it seem like THRUSH had won.”

Hearing that, every muscle in Illya’s powerful form stretches taut.

 

_Why does tragedy exist? Because you are so full of rage._

 

The words swirl in his head and Illya simply could not think anymore because rage has overtaken him. And Napoleon could feel the waves of Illya’s fury from where he is standing. But despite fearing what Illya could do, he will stop at nothing to make Illya understand he had never meant to hurt him.

“Illya, I’m sorry if you…”

“You are sorry?” Illya cuts him off, snarling, his anger twisting his features. There is no recognition in his eyes. And before Napoleon could do anything, he pushes Napoleon aside with one arm, slams him into the closest wall.

“I grieved for you!” he shouts as Napoleon’s body twists as he hits the wall hard with the side of his torso. Napoleon gives a grunt of discomfort, tries to push off the wall to grab at Illya’s arms only to have Illya slamming him back hard against the wall again.

“Illya, listen! I wanted you to know! I tried to let you know somehow, but they made me swear not to. They wanted my death to seem as real as possible!”

“And you used this tragedy, you used my grief for this? To make it believable?”

“Illya, believe me, if there was any other way…”

 _“No!”_ Illya does not let Napoleon finish. And he does not want to hear anything else. And he definitely can’t with all the buzz roaring in his ears. Napoleon is still pleading, trying to explain everything but Illya is having none of it. With a loud growl, he fists the American’s collar and pulls him away from the wall before throwing him towards the other side of the room with more force. Napoleon’s back collides again with the hard surface and this time he groans aloud in pain. He tries to dodge Illya before he could pin him again, but Illya is too fast, too strong. His hands then are around Napoleon's throat in no time at all, and he leans in nearer, adding pressure to his hold.

“You are dead,” he hisses angrily, “you died, Solo, and I grieved!”

“Illya,” Napoleon struggles and gasps, trying to blink away the creeping darkness that is starting to swarm his vision. His hands desperately cling to Illya’s arm.

“Illya, _please_ , stop,” he cries, his words coming out more as a strained wheeze. He tries to lock eyes with Illya, tries to tell him that he’s hurting him, even if he knows this isn’t really the Illya that he knows, because that man would never ever hurt him, but is finding it increasingly hard to focus on anything with every passing second.

“Illya, look at me. It’s me,” Napoleon tries again with more desperation than ever.

His futile effort seems to work because the hands at his throat go still for a split-second and then suddenly the pressure is gone. Illya staggers back and looks at Napoleon, horrified at the realisation of what he’d done. Free from Illya’s grip, the American takes a desperate breath before sliding down the wall, coughing and gulping down air. He hits the floor, trembling and taking greedy breaths, breaths that only burn down his bruised throat. His vision, blurred while he’s deprived of air earlier, starts to clear with some rapid blinking, but the black spots still linger despite his best efforts to chase it away.

Coughing incessantly, Napoleon tries to focus on his breathing in a controlled manner, while allowing his eyes to slip closed. When he has calmed somewhat, and the trembling of his body had lessened, he opens his eyes again.

He mutters Illya’s name but finds it difficult to say more when the pain around his throat persists. The Russian is standing a couple of feet away from him, eyes cast down, staring at his shaky hands, and he groans when he notices Napoleon’s eyes on him. 

They are full of hurt.

And he looks as though he wishes he really is dead.

 

***

 

“Would it make you feel better if I had stayed dead?”

Minutes later, when both have calmed, and Napoleon finds it does not hurt too much to speak again, he asks Illya this. The Russian has slid down to the floor too, across from Napoleon, and is looking at the American with remorse. 

 

_Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief._

 

Illya remembers the feel of his hands tight around Napoleon’s throat, his weight against his chest when he had him pinned against the wall. That isn’t how he had imagined he would do to Napoleon if he found him still alive. Because he had played that scenario in his head over and over again, countless of times, and each time, he would pull him in his arms, he would hold him tight, crushing him against his body. He would be relieved beyond words that he is still able to hold him and that he has been given a second chance to tell Napoleon how he feels, something which he had never been able to do before despite numerous chances that’s presented to him.

That’s how it is supposed to be and not him wringing his hands around Napoleon’s neck. He isn’t supposed to try to choke him to death.

“You made me think you were dead…and I believed it.”

”I’m so sorry, Illya.

Illya wants to say many things but finds it difficult to articulate what he wants to say. And Napoleon begging for his forgiveness isn’t helping him at all.

Blinking, he looks at the side of Napoleon’s face, the bruise that has started forming on one side of his strong jaw, marring his skin, and tries not to think he had been the cause of it.

“Illya, please. Forgive me,” Napoleon says once again. With difficulty, he slides closer towards his friend. Despite his body aching all over, he wants to get his message across to Illya.

“I don't know what I have to do to make it up to you, but I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. Hurting you is the last thing I want, you have to believe me.”

Illya knows it is not Napoleon’s fault, he knows it that much, but it still had hurt, knowing the organisation he works for had used his weakness, his violent rage disorder, to the benefit of their mission. And Napoleon had let it happen, and it seemed like a betrayal. 

After he’d learned of Napoleon’s ‘death’, he’d left a trail of destruction; breaking and destroying everything in his path until he had to be contained. Sedation had been Waverly’s last resort and when he’d awaken hours later, Gaby was at his side, comforting him the best she could. 

Illya remembers everything and suddenly feels UNCLE is no better than the KGB. He had been used. And the thought seizes his heart like he had been stabbed in the chest.

 

_Your rage is an asset, Kuryakin, will always be. Do not disobey what we want unless you want to follow your father’s fate._

 

He recalls familiar taunting voices in his head.

 

_You need to learn how to control your rage, learn how to use it well. Learn when to let go, or you will only be a disadvantage to us. You do not want this, do you? To be an embarrassment?_

 

Lost in his wandering thoughts, he’s pulled back to the present by a hand on his arm.

“Illya.”

He flinches back at Napoleon’s touch like it had burned him. Alarmed, he quickly scrambles to his feet, leaving Napoleon staring up at him.

“Wait, Illya,” Napoleon pleads but Illya just shakes his head.

“I have to leave. Cannot be here with you, cannot be around you,” he chokes. _‘I will only hurt you. Can’t you see it?’_ He knows he needs to get out from the room, needs to get away from Napoleon before he does something he will further regret. And he doesn’t let himself look at Napoleon, misses the dejected look on the American as he walks past him to the door.

“Peril, no, wait, we need to talk,” Illya hears Napoleon say but he does not stop, simply leaves.

 

***

 

If Illya had thought to be alone inside his apartment would make him feel better, then it has not. He had paced around his living room, had pulled out a couple of books from his rack to read only to toss it away after every few minutes in frustration, and had even tried sleeping his anxiety off. But that last resort had only made everything worse. When he’d closed his eyes, he kept seeing Napoleon’s face, kept hearing the desperate and strangled noises he’d made when he had tried to choke him. For hours the thought of Napoleon would not leave him alone.

And by the time Gaby had stopped by, telling him Napoleon had told her everything that had happened, Illya’s afraid he has gone crazy.

“Did you know as well?" he growls accusingly at Gaby. “You are part of this lie?”

They are both seated on the sofa when Gaby had had enough of Illya’s crazy pinball movement around the room, and now, when she finally gets him to calm down, she admits to the lie she’d been living for the past month.

“Yes, I was, and I’m not proud of the fact that I’d lied to you,” she says as he stares at her uncomprehendingly. “But we had no other choice, Illya. We needed to make THRUSH think that we didn’t have the cure. It was the only way to make the mission worked. And now that everything’s cleared, Solo is able to return to work.”

Suddenly something dawns on Illya.

“Is that why Waverly assigned us to Tokyo? Take me out of picture?”

Gaby nods sadly. “Everything had been planned meticulously by Waverly. You had to be kept in the dark even if Solo and I had raised our concerns with Waverly. I even warned him that you might not take it well but it was exactly what Waverly wanted. We didn't want to hurt you, Illya. Especially not Solo. You must know this. We were under orders. There was pressure on UNCLE to get the job done.”

“And at my expense,” Illya bitterly says.

Gaby places an arm around Illya’s shoulders and for the first time since he’d known the truth, Illya allows himself to be comforted.

“It could have been any of us, Illya. Our handlers won’t hesitate to use any of the agents to the advantage of the mission at hand. And yes, it’s a terrible thing to know, but I’m sure you’re aware of this.”

“Yes,” Illya painfully admits. “But maybe, I thought, UNCLE is different than KGB. Could be different.”

Gaby sighs, a sympathetic look on her face. “UNCLE is not the KGB. But the game is always the same, unfortunately.”

Silence ensues after that, and Illya uses it to grasp in everything that had happened. Acceptance isn’t easy, but he knows it’s also been difficult for both Gaby and Napoleon. _Especially Napoleon_. At the thought of him, his insides churn painfully.

“I tried to hurt him,” he whispers. “I tried to choke him.”

“Napoleon won’t hold it against you. He loves you, Illya.”

Hearing that Illya turns to look at Gaby so fast, his neck twinges in pain.

“What did you say?” he asks, confused. Either Gaby is playing a cruel joke, or she’s trying too hard to make him feel better. She is the only person he had ever opened up to regarding his feelings for Napoleon and Illya had expected better than that from her. But Gaby does not answer his question, only moves to take something out from her purse and places it in Illya’s hand.

It’s a rook. A wooden, intricately carved rook. And Illya looks at her with more confusion than ever.

“What is this?” he asks.

“When we were first briefed about the Bogota mission, Napoleon immediately knew what he’s getting into. The risks, the possibility that the antidote might not really work, and if the worst happened, he’s afraid he might not be able to tell you how he really feels.”

Illya is dumbstruck. He cannot believe what Gaby is trying to tell him.

“He’d stolen that rook many months before Bogota. In some expensive antique shop while the both of us were doing reconnaissance in a mission in Brussels. _‘Peril will definitely fancy this’_ he says, but he never gave it to you because I teased him too much and I guess he got pretty embarrassed about it. But before we left for Tokyo, Solo asked me to give it to you if anything were to happen to him. He wanted me to tell you everything. But nothing did happen, he’s alive and well, so I kept it. And I kept his damn secret too. But I guess, you should have the rook, Illya, because it’s rightfully yours. And as for his secret, well, it’s no longer a secret anymore, I suppose. And I don’t regret telling it to you.”

By the time Gaby had finished explaining everything, Illya could hardly breathe. With trembling fingers, he traces the carvings on the rook and a sad smile forms on his lips. Only Cowboy would do something like this. Suddenly he wishes he had told Napoleon how he had felt for him, how he _still_ feels for him. But he tells himself he is not too late, that he still has a chance. Napoleon is alive. Remembering what had happened earlier, and knowing he has to make it up to him, he quickly gets off the sofa and grabs his jacket which is hung on his coat stand.

“Illya?” Gaby asks when the Russian moves in a hurry. “Where are you going?”

He gives her a determined look.

“I’ve to see Cowboy.”

Gaby’s face beams at once. Running to his side to hug him tight, she then kisses him good luck. “Make it work,” she mouths, and Illya thanks her for everything she’d done for them before quickly dashing out of the apartment, hoping it is not too late for him to ask for Napoleon’s forgiveness.

 

***

 

Seeing Napoleon slumped on the floor of his hallway, right in front of the door to his apartment with a beer bottle clutched in his hand breaks Illya’s heart. He calls his name, worried for a moment when Napoleon doesn’t respond to his voice. Quickly falling to his knees, he calls Napoleon again, waves a hand in front of his face, and when Napoleon realises after a while that it’s, in fact, Illya and not some illusion that’s hovering over him, he straightens up against the wall he’s been leaning on.

“What are you doing on the floor, Cowboy?”

Napoleon feels like he should snub Illya, but he doesn’t want to be a child. And he’s tired. So tired. The events of the day had exhausted him enough.

“Can you believe I left my keys in the office?” he starts. “After our very lovely reacquaintance, I went for a drink, took a very long walk before getting home only to find I didn’t have my keys. I didn’t feel like going back to the office to get it. I could’ve called Gaby for help, but then realised I had to get into my apartment to call her. So, uh, in the end, I decided why not spend the night here? Could have been worse. My only worry was if my next door neighbour Mr Henderson reporting me to the police, that some drunk is lingering right outside his hallway.”

A pang of guilt hits Illya at his explanation. He eyes the beer bottle in his hand and looks at Napoleon again. “Are you drunk?”

“Not really. Though wish I was now, so I’d know how to handle this better.”

Illya makes a strangled noise, a cross between a sob and a laugh, and Napoleon looks affronted.

“What are you doing here, Peril? I thought you didn’t want to be around me.”

Illya exhales. Ignoring Napoleon’s cutting remark, he moves to sit on the floor but is careful not to touch the American. He wants to, _God_ , he wants to. But no. Not just yet.

“Gaby, she came to my apartment. Told me everything.”

“The same thing I’d told you before you tried to strangle me,” Napoleon says tightly. “But I guess Gaby did a better job now that you’re not trying to kill me anymore.”

Napoleon knows it’s harsh for him to say that, considering what Illya had been through. But he couldn’t help himself. Placing the empty bottle he’d been clutching to the floor, he then rubs his face with his hands and drags his fingers through his hair. Illya can’t ignore that Napoleon looks a right mess; his hair dishevelled with strands of his curls falling whichever way over his forehead, his necktie hung loosely around the collar of his crumpled shirt, the top two buttons undone, revealing the purpling bruises on his neck.

And Illya had been the cause of it.

“I did this,” he murmurs, voice uncharacteristically raw. Slowly, he reaches out, takes Napoleon’s chin between his fingers, moves as if to touch the bruise. But his fingers only hover over it, fleeting, and then he curls them into a fist.

“I hurt you,” he spits, angry at himself. He looks away, can’t bear to think he’d gone overboard, letting his rage control himself, like how the KGB had used his rage to control him. And to think Napoleon had not even tried to put a semblance of a fight. He then stares at Napoleon, and swallows, knowing fully well he needs to make amends, somehow, to the American.

“I’m sorry, Cowboy,” he mutters lowly. He swallows again, apologises again because he doesn’t know what else to do or say at the moment.

“It’ll be fine. It doesn’t hurt. Not like how I’d hurt you.”

Illya seems to struggle, his jaw working, the muscles in his temples moving with each clench of his jaw. His eyes are intense on Napoleon, boring into him, pleading for him to understand what he’s trying to say.

 

_I never meant to hurt you._

 

Wordlessly, Napoleon nods, as if he has some telepathic powers, understanding exactly what’s on Illya’s mind. “You did not hurt me, Illya. What happened earlier, it’s totally understandable.”

The way he had said it, with such convincing honesty, makes Illya’s insides ache. And he could not take it anymore, he has to admit to at least a fragment of what he’d gone through to his partner.

“I did not lie when I said I grieved for you,” Illya starts slowly. “You did not know how I felt when Waverly told me that you had…”

Unthinking, he stops and reaches to take both of Napoleon’s hands in his. “It was bad, Cowboy. I did not take it well. Waverly asked me to go for leave. To clear my head. And I did as I was told. It worked for a while but I came back to UNCLE and you were still there. In my head.”

“I did not think I’d mattered that much to you,” Napoleon says, and when that earns him a glare, Napoleon quickly mutters an apology. “ _Do_ I matter that much to you?” he asks, and the way Napoleon had sounded, so helplessly innocent with such hopeful eyes, Illya decides he’s got nothing to lose by telling him the truth.

“Yes,” he forces the word out. “I would not go on rampage if you are just a friend.”

Being braver, he pulls Napoleon closer until their legs are between each other. Then he takes from his pocket the rook Gaby had given him, shows it to Napoleon much to the American’s surprise.

“G-Gaby,” Napoleon stutters, “she’s, she’s supposed to keep that.”

He’s rather red faced, tries to look away but Illya does not let him by grabbing his face, forcing him to look him in the eye. 

“Gaby told me everything.”

Napoleon is visibly stunned. “Everything?”

Illya nods. _“Everything.”_

Napoleon suddenly laughs, perhaps embarrassed, but Illya is serious, eyes never leaving his. Napoleon clearly had expected Illya to react differently to the bombshell that he’s in love with the Russian; perhaps an angrier reaction, but he’s had enough of an angry Illya for the time being. Taking a deep breath, he decides to ask him the dreaded question. “So are you going to ask for a transfer, now that you know?”

Illya thinks about that for a moment. If his secret had been let out of the bag in the same manner, and Napoleon didn’t feel the same, he probably would ask for that transfer. But there is absolutely no need for Napoleon to do that because he feels the exact same way for his partner, and, if Illya wants to be petty, maybe even more.

“You are stupid if you think I would ask for transfer,” he says, a stern look on his face.

“So…what are you saying?” Napoleon whispers, stares at Illya in honest confusion. Maybe that bang on his head had him concussed enough that he isn’t able to grasp what Illya is telling him. “Illya?”

Illya wishes he could kiss Napoleon to make him understand. Sometimes the American can be a little slow on the uptake.

“Maybe I feel the same.”

“Really?” Napoleon says, head jerking up. He’s dazed now. The day had started off in an entirely different manner, and now Illya’s telling him he has feelings for him as well? He must be dreaming. 

“If this is a joke to get back at me, you are cruel, Kuryakin.”

“Not a joke,” Illya exhales. “I do not think it is.”

“Illya, I don’t know if I deserve this, after what I did,” Napoleon says, and then he starts to tremble as Illya pulls him in, wraps his arms around him. “How do I make it up to you? Tell me,” he mutters against his shoulder.

Cursing, Illya pulls back to cup his face, wills Napoleon to really see that he has nothing at all to be sorry for.

“Just never leave, again. And we make sure UNCLE or anyone else never use us again like this. Understand? Is not your fault.”

Napoleon nods against Illya’s forehead, eyes closed tight, murmuring, “All right. That I can do.”

This time, Illya does press his lips on Napoleon’s forehead, not able to hold it back any longer. He can’t pretend he hasn’t missed him, that whole month when he’d been left truly wrecked.

“Don’t make me feel that way again, Cowboy, I don’t want to feel that again. I thought I had lost you,” Illya admits, sure and true for the first time.

“God damn it, Illya,” Napoleon curses all of a sudden. “I won’t.” 

He pauses, searching for words, behaving unlike the smooth operative that he is, and Illya is hit by the realisation that he is the one who had done this to him. The feeling is unlike anything he knows, his heart swelling at the idea of it.

Illya can’t tell which one of them has moved first, but perhaps that doesn’t matter, because Napoleon’s lips now are on his, his tongue sliding against his, hands gripping his shoulders as if afraid Illya will disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight. When Napoleon pulls away, Illya lowers his head to chase those lips again, and then after kissing him breathless, he licks along the curve of Napoleon’s neck, the turn of his jaw, across the faint bruises left by his own fingers on Napoleon’s skin.

 _Don’t leave again_ , he thinks silently to himself, as he hides his face at the crook of Napoleon’s neck, nuzzling his tender skin there, and as if reading his mind, Napoleon arches into him with a groan, an uncontrolled shudder wracking his body. Illya thinks he hears Napoleon say _‘I love you’_ , and his heart stops. And he can’t do anything else but kisses and bites the junction of Napoleon’s neck and shoulder and breathe in. New bruises will form there, but this time it’s a different one, born out of something beautiful, not pain.

“Illya,” Napoleon says, makes a fist in his hair and pulls him back so he can look at him, eyes blown wide, lips ruined. “You believe me?” he asks, “because it’s the truth.”

 

_‘I believe you. Because I feel the same. I don’t know when, I don’t know how, but I do.’_

 

Those are the things Illya wants to say, but he’s having trouble saying it because he’s overwhelmed. He thinks he’s able to confess to anything now that everything is out in the open, but Napoleon had stolen the words right from his mouth. And before he could tell him this, Napoleon is crushing their lips together again, making Illya forget everything.

At some point in time later, they’ve stopped kissing and they’re just sitting there, holding each other close, soaking in the moment. But Illya breaks it when curiosity gets the better of him, suddenly asking Napoleon why he had stolen a rook in particular instead of the other chess pieces. And when Napoleon explains that only a rook and its own king, or a queen and its own king, could checkmate an enemy king by themselves, Illya smirks. Because of course he already knows this. And when he asks why not steal him a queen instead, Napoleon laughs and admits that the rook was the one he could get a hold of before the store owner could notice what he had done.

“I would have stolen the whole damn chess set if I could, but I didn’t have enough time.”

“You are impossible, Cowboy,” Illya shakes his head at him fondly. His usual manner, oozing charm and composure, with that bright smile on his face always gets to Illya. How could Illya deny him anything? A surge of emotion rushes through him and Illya finds himself kissing him again.

“Mr Henderson won’t be pleased if he comes out to see us like this,” Napoleon says, breathless as Illya releases his lips, suggests that they get off the floor.

“When I have a word with him, he will think twice to do anything,” Illya growls a reply making Napoleon laugh. But it only lasts for a second when he turns all serious again.

“I’m sorry, Illya. I won’t let them do that to you again,” he whispers, and Illya shakes his head, smiles a very small smile, echoes Napoleon’s promise. And _this_ between them somehow feels like forgiveness. For Illya. For Napoleon.

For the both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is the first fic that I've written where Illya reacts violently towards Napoleon. But I hope it is decent enough and that his reaction to it is realistic. 
> 
> ps: Sorry if the fic title sucks, I really am bad at naming fics.


End file.
